Helpless Angel
by Hemlock
Summary: You thought that was the end, yes? Well, this is the ending, newly loaded. An epilogue of sorts.
1. Morning

Author's Note: The usual disclaimer here... I was cracking my brains when I saw this picture of Warren and thought why not make a story of him? So, here goes..., oh, and please do you-know-what after you're done reading... ;-)  
  
  
  
  
  
"Morning, Warren."  
  
Warren gave Ororo a moan.   
  
Ororo stopped pruning the hedges as the blond man walked past in front of her. "Warren? Are you all right?"  
  
Warren stopped and turned to her. She was squatting behind some shrubs with a pair of garden shears. He waved a dismissal hand to her and started walking toward the garage.  
  
Ororo stood up, watching Warren as he entered the garage. Soon she could hear engines roaring, and later Warren was out of the mansion inside his Honda.  
  
  
Salvation comes to various people in various means. For Warren salvation meant getting out of Xavier's coop for one day and waste away the day - if not week - in some health club, a hotel with a personal gym or a lakeside retreat. Money had always been easy for him. He could always sell some Degas or that awful Kandinsky painting he had bought on a whim three summers ago at Christie's. But never the van Gogh, he added with pleasure. That somehow lifted the pain veil on his face. Never the van Gogh.  
  
Warren hated those booming music in a car. He was sort of a selfish fellow - he wanted everything, if possible, to himself. So here he listened to the passionate strains of Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto as played by Oistrakh. (Was that his name? Warren didn't care. All he knew this was the best version.)   
  
Already Warren could feel his spirits lighten up. Nothing like a good ride and a good music to lift one's soul. He glanced at the dashboard clock. The LED numbers said nine-thirty. Fine, Warren thought. He could do with a little walk in the nearby park eating some strudel and a glass of skim milk cappuccino.   
  
He took a left turn at the next junction and ten minutes later he arrived at the park. The image transducer was on, so he had no need to fear people freaking out on him.   
  
Sitting on a bench fifteen minutes later with a polystyrene cup and two apple strudels Warren felt ignorantly happy. People jogging down the crazy-paved path, a lake before him with the sun reflected on it, the clean morning air-   
  
And he forgot to ask for sugar.   
  
He had checked twice inside the bag they gave him but only came out with two sachets of creamer. "Must be first-timer," Warren thought almost angrily. He had been quite a regular customer at the nearby café, and almost everyone there knew his tastes and preferences.   
  
Warren slumped in the bench. He wasn't going to let something like this dampen his perfect getaway. He looked around, doubting whether he should go back to the café or the nearer convenient store.   
  
  
Warren hated convenient stores.  
  
But the café, when he tried, didn't have the usual sugar he preferred (fat-free). So he made up his mind to look inside the store. He found later that he had to look for it, and he used to imagine that they had this stores all in order, like snacks on one row, other stuff the next.  
  
This store was a mess. Everything seemed all jumbled up, mixed here and there. Warren got stares when he accidentally picked up a condom that was wedged in between no-fat sugar sachets. When he was sure he picked up the right one he quickly walked to the counter.   
  
Maybe he didn't her coming or she didn't, but they bumped on each other when they walked out of opposite rows. Warren was about to apologise when from under her coat, snacks, sodas, bottled water and sardines fell out. Both were in shock and surprise, and neither said a word for a full minute.  
  
Then she made a move toward the exit but Warren was quick enough to catch her denim coat. Surprisingly the coat slipped off her easily enough, and with a gasp she ran out of the store and out of sight.  
  
Warren stood there, not knowing what should he do. He stared at the coat later, then turned it inside out. Bits of wrapping papers, three bus tickets and sand fell out. Warren also noticed the lower part of the coat was slightly wet and dirty.   
  
He weighed these in his mind.  
  
  
The day quickly changed from sunny to cloudy in no time at all. Certain that rain would surely come, Warren went back to his car, preparing to go back.  
  
Someone tapped at the window.   
  
"Hello?"  
  
Warren looked up. It was the girl... woman. He wasn't sure where to place her. Where does one draw the line? She looked young, but her eyes proved to be older than what she seemed. And the ratty hair... She was hugging her shoulders. Warren realised that outside was getting cold as he rolled down the window.  
  
"Give back my coat," said she sternly.  
  
Warren stared at her as if she didn't say a thing.  
  
"I said, give back my coat!"  
  
"Then where you'll go?" he asked, putting his arm on the rolled down window. "Back to that pipe where you sit on a puddle waiting for the rain to stop like yesterday?"  
  
Surprise was evident in her eyes when he said that, and Warren liked the way he was proved to be correct. She stepped back hesitantly. "What do you care?" she asked back with sluggish retort. "I want my coat back."  
  
"Come inside," said Warren with a smile.  
  
She eyed him suspiciously. "Go to hell," she replied as she walked away.   
  
"Dammit!" Warren shouted from his car. "It's going to rain, you fool!"  
  
"I am not going inside a car with someone I don't know!"  
  
Warren got out of his car. At that instant a brief flash and a loud roll of thunder made him quickly return inside. "It's dangerous!" he shouted at her again. "You'll get yourself struck by lightning."  
  
Rain began to fall in large drops. Warren saw the girl crouched inside a big pipe in the middle of the park. He stared at her; afraid that she would bolt off the moment he looked away.   
  
That proved impossible, because the weather seemed to have other ideas. It continued to rain heavily with the occasional thunder and lightning. The sharp wind made everything more dangerous, and Warren wondered how long could she sit there, crouching.  
  
  
  
Should we see how long...? Tell me! 


	2. Rain

The car was still there, she thought. She wondered whether she had fallen asleep for a while and whether time had passed for so long.   
  
Damn that man! He had the urge to foil her attempt, and now he held her coat hostage. Probably he wanted to have sex with her, but she wouldn't give in to that. Her coat was nothing compared to her pride, she assured herself, and nothing will make her substitute the former for the latter.  
  
She hugged her knees closer and tried to trick herself that she was back in her warm bed and tried to sleep.  
  
"You can't sleep here."  
  
The voice made her make-believe bedroom drain away and this dank smelly pipe replacing it. She looked up and out. It was he. He was holding an umbrella that was wide enough to cover two people of his size. "I can sleep anywhere I want," she replied harshly. "And you can keep my coat. I don't need it."  
  
"You'll need more than a coat to survive this rain," he said, shifting the umbrella to his left hand. Extending his right hand he said, "Come."  
  
"Go away," she angrily muttered, turning her back to him.  
  
"I am not going away unless you agree to go into my car."  
  
"Suits you," she said, pretending to fall asleep. But she knew he was standing there, staring down at her. That thought created gooseflesh on her skin, and she gathered herself closer.   
  
"You see," he said, intruding her thoughts. "You're getting cold. You'll need warmth."  
  
"And you can provide it," she said, thick with sarcasm.  
  
"Look." She heard a wet rustle behind and gauged that he knelt down behind her. "I am not a pervert. I don't pick up girls and have sex in my car with them, if that's what you are thinking." He chuckled, a surprising sound amidst the torrential rain.  
  
When she asked him what was funny, he replied, "I have better things to do in my car than having sex."  
  
She couldn't help but smile at this remark. But she didn't lower her defences, and neither did she turn to him.   
  
When his voice urged her to follow him, she turned to face him. "Why are you insisting?"  
  
"Why are you resisting?" he asked in return. "I don't see why people these days are so untrusting."  
  
"It happens that we live in an age where you can't even trust your own parents, so forgive my biased perception," she replied. Her tone didn't sound like she was apologising. So was her expression.  
  
Now, under the darkened light of rainy day, she could see him quite clearly. He had this open expression, someone who was ready to try everything. But hovering over it all was a hesitation, a... fear.   
  
His eyes, almost black when she ran into him, now were blue-grey. They were thoughtful, soulful eyes. His wet blond hair was short and neat. An indication of his status was his scent. His aftershave smelt in the rain something exotic, woodsy and exotic. To put it crudely, he smelt of money.  
  
But she knew all too well that even the most handsome of men were terrible men… murderers, perverts… madmen.   
  
"I am not a serial murderer, either," he said, smiling down at her. "Look, you can trust me. I don't eat people, kill people, or mutilate them for pleasure. I don't have to."  
  
She stared at the face, trying to search a hint of malice, of madness… of anything.  
  
She could only find honesty.  
  
  
Warren led her to his car under the umbrella in a hurry. The weather was getting worse by the minute.  
  
At last she agreed. When they both were in the car, only slightly wet, Warren gave her the coat and told her to put it on. "Do you want something to eat?" he asked her.  
  
She shook her head, abashed, but he ignored it and reached to the back seat. Later she was eating his second strudel and the second coke was in the other hand while Warren drove. Not back home to the mansion, but toward the city.  
  
She was quiet, but whenever he spoke of a subject that piqued her interest she would start talking, and her knowledge were rather deep for someone who had lived in the streets for all her life. In the back of his mind, Warren began to wonder.  
  
Beating around the bush was his second best ability. "What does someone your age trying to shoplift snacks? Not to mention that would be enough to feed an army."  
  
"I was hungry," she replied slowly.  
  
Warren whistled. "That must have been some hunger."   
  
"Laugh all you want," she said, finishing the strudel and belched loudly. Warren lifted an eyebrow at this. "Women can belch too," she protested when she saw his expression. "Why can't we do you men do?"  
  
"I wasn't complaining," he replied good-humouredly.   
  
She sank into her seat with a huff. Silence fell between them before Warren decided to prod further. "Where do you want to go?"  
  
"New Jersey."  
  
"Your family's back there?" Warren noticed her head shook in negation.  
  
"Well, who is?"  
  
"Look, mister," she said, sounding slightly annoyed. "I appreciate all this, I do." She turned to him, her face weary yet serious. "But it doesn't mean you can be Oprah all of a sudden. I don't want people snooping around. Checking me up. Asking me what you've asked just now."   
  
Warren kept his hands still on the wheel while his mind worked its way through her words. The way she said those things, she was definitely not a street bum. Everything confirmed his suspicions about her.  
  
He pulled over. They were half a mile from the train station and she suddenly realised they had stopped. The engine was still on, though, and Warren flicked on the light. It was still raining cats and dogs and space garbage outside. In the silence he stared at her that she began to fidget uneasily.  
  
"Why are we stopping?"  
  
"I want answers."  
  
"I won't give any."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Let me out." She pulled at the knob but it wouldn't budge.  
  
"You are not getting out unless you give me answers."  
  
"Let me out, mister." Her voice was becoming strained. So was her expression.  
  
"Answer me first."  
  
Instead she threw herself upon him and tried to rain punches on his face, on his chest, on anywhere that she thought would hurt the most, on anywhere that was uncovered. Her high-pitched scream filled the car.  
  
Warren let her hit him anywhere she wanted, but when her small fists fell dangerously close to between his legs he quickly restrained them. "Answer me, dammit." His eyes were blue-green slits. "What happened?"  
  
Her fists in his hands were still firm, still willing to fight, would have rained more punches on him were he to let her. He loosened his fists. Her fists slowly opened, became half-opened palms, then they came up to cover her face. Her shoulders shook, as Warren heard sobs coming from her.  
  
Finally she broke down and cried.  
  
Warren's emotions fell into a swirl that was becoming increasingly chaotic. Slowly he gathered her close to his chest and hugged her. When her hands came to lock around his neck he hugged her tighter and dropped kisses on her head while she cried.  
  
  
  
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I can't stop typing! This story was so engrossing to create and I'm discovering new facets of Warren that I never thought possible. Thanks to those who review the story(Sioned especially!). Your words make me want to do the best! 


	3. Night

Author's Note: Disclaimers... disclaimers... and did I tell you guys I cracked my head to write this? Now my brains all over the floor...  
  
  
  
  
  
"How long will your father serve the sentence?"  
  
She shook her head. "He pleaded temporary insanity on the grounds that he was drunk at that time."  
  
"Your mom?"  
  
"She's in coma." She turned her glance outside. It had stopped raining. "Doctors didn't know whether she'd recover. Pop's broken bottle almost cut through her heart."  
  
"Won't your foster family search for you when they knew you've ran away?"  
  
She shook her head. "It's already three days. I don't see my face on any milk carton." She leant back, wiping traces of tears on her face. "I'm sorry for my outburst."  
  
"Happens all the time," Warren replied. "Though women don't normally cry in my arms out of sadness."  
  
She smiled. "I think I know why," she said, giving him an enigmatic smile. "You're too beautiful to make anyone cry."  
  
Warren felt his cheeks blush. "Where do you plan to go now?" he asked, quickly changing the subject.  
  
"Told you, New Jersey." She nodded to herself. "I have a family there. Sort of."  
  
"What do you mean, sort of?" They were back on the road again. "Don't tell me some other abusive foster parents."  
  
"No," she said, almost defiantly. "She's my grandmother's cousin. I call her grandma, anyway, since I was a lot closer to her than my mother's mom. And she hates my parents."  
  
Warren shook his head. "They're still your parents. It's wrong to hate your parents so much."  
  
"Easy for you to say," she said. "You probably had a happy childhood, didn't you?"  
  
Warren slammed at the brakes suddenly in the middle of the road. She lurched forward; a shocked scream escaped her lips as the seatbelt pulled her harshly back onto her seat. Two cars honked loudly as they passed them by.  
  
"What's that for?" she asked, looking at Warren. By now Warren was looking straight, his eyes unblinking, scowling. "Mister? You all right?"  
  
Warren then smiled bitterly as he turned to her. "Happy childhood?" he asked her in a voice even he could not remember as his own. "Yeah, I had that. Until it was all seized from me." With that he touched his belt and turning to her, Warren could feel the image transducer lost its effect.   
  
He could see the effect his real self had on her. She immediately shrank away, her eyes widened and her palms went up cover her lips.   
  
When her disbelief looks didn't go away for probably half a minute, he sat back on his seat and turned so that she could see him clearer. "Yeah," he said. "I had a happy childhood. Until I found that I was a mutant." He tapped at the wheel thoughtfully before he went on. "When my parents found out about this, all hell broke loose. Back then, I didn't have this blue skin; this came afterwards, but I won't want to share that with you."  
  
He let the first few rows of buttons of his shirt came off and to add more to her surprise his wings unfolded and came into view. Warren's Honda was spacious, so there was more than enough room to let his wings out. "This happened to me. This stole away what could have been the best years of my life. And my parents damned close to disowning me for it. I never had good relationships with my parents, especially my father. He saw me as a mutant, not his son."  
  
She was still in disbelief when he folded his wings and put his shirt back on. Staring at the road again, he flicked a button and all the locks to the car doors were open. "Now you know I'm a mutant, you might want to reassess your views on me." He glanced at her. "You can go."  
  
When the transducer was back on she looked as if she had seen a real alien but didn't want to believe it. Slowly though, she spoke. "Thank you."  
  
Warren frowned. Did he hear it right? "Thank *you*?"  
  
"Yeah," she said, staring at the road before them. "Thank you. For not pretending. For being who you really are." She smiled to herself before turning to him. She reached to his belt and sought to where he had pushed the transducer and his real self emerged again. "I've met so many people who are trying to be someone else. Someone they cannot be. I watched this over and over again and I feel sad, I sympathise them, but lately I felt betrayed."  
  
"Because of what happened to your parents?" he asked. He didn't bother to turn it back on, although he felt rather naked like this.  
  
She nodded. "They had seemed so perfect together, and then in one night I found that nothing had been what it had seemed. My father whom I thought noble and loving was an alcoholic and abusive. My mother was... a woman." She closed her eyes briefly. "She had no backbone. She could never stand up to herself. Never." Her voice was bitter when she said those.  
  
"The foster parents were worse. Everyone was so sweet I felt I'd get diabetics just by listening to them talking. But whenever they thought I wasn't listening they'd begin to whisper about me and how I was a failure, in life and in school, in everything, and how they wished I'd get out of their home." She ran a hand up in his short hair. "I think I did them a favour by running away. Now I met you and I'm going to my grandma's home. That's better than staying with a bunch of people who lives under masks."  
  
He stopped her hand. "Then we'd better hurry," he said.  
  
  
"Next train to New Jersey is in fifteen minutes," said the man behind the counter. "How many, sir?"   
  
"One, please." Then: "Do you have first class?"  
  
The man smiled. "Travelling in style, are we, sir?"  
  
"No," Warren replied. "I wanted my friend there to have a comfortable journey home. She's been through so much."  
  
"No, sir, we have no first class carriage."  
  
Warren shrugged. "The normal seat, then."  
  
Later he was drinking with her in the station café. It was night, and the rain had started again. "I wanted first class but they didn't have any," he complained to her. "What sort of trains do they run nowadays?"  
  
She laughed. "New Jersey isn't that far. Maybe I'll be in New Jersey in two hours or so in this weather."  
  
"But you'll be uncomfortable! All that jittery and people bustling about that narrow aisle while you try to sleep!"  
  
"I'll be fine," she assured him. "I've been worse."  
  
That effectively cut off his comments. "Well," he said after a while passed in silence. "Guess we should go to your train." He glanced at his Rolex. "Five minutes."  
  
She gazed at him as they both stood and walked toward the platform where her train was ready. He noticed her gaze and she quickly turned away. "What's the matter?"  
  
She smiled, an uncertain, shy smile. "You've been a perfect gentleman." She turned on her heels and looked up to him, her brown eyes wide and shining with happiness. "You proved to be everything I never thought of... and more."  
  
Warren waved a hand at her remarks. "You needed help," he said sheepishly.  
  
"No," she quickly pulled at his arm. "You are. You are a perfect gentleman. If circumstances were more pleasant I would have..." She trailed off and released his arm.  
  
Warren was curious. "What?" he asked in a low voice.  
  
"Nothing!" She blushed and smiled. A shrill whistle was blown and she quickly turned. "Goodbye, mister..."  
  
"Warren." He nodded at her. "Name's Warren."  
  
She nodded as she stepped into the carriage. "Goodbye, Warren."  
  
He saw her disappear into the carriage and waited as the train began its slow motion, gaining momentum. Suddenly the carriage door where she had entered just now burst open. She came out running.  
  
"What are you doing?" he shouted. "You'll miss the train!"  
  
She ran towards him and when she was close enough she hugged him tight that Warren could feel his wings beneath his shirt pressing onto his skin. "Thank you, thank you," she uttered breathlessly.  
  
And she dropped a chaste kiss on his lips that caught him unguarded.  
  
With that she let him go, waved at him, and entered the train.  
  
  
How well Dickens had put it all in writing.   
  
They had been ships in passing, sending signals to each other, only to go on sailing into the dark of the night. Or something like that. Warren read his Dickens, but never paid much attention to literature.   
  
He was alone right now, in his lakeside house at the edge of Westchester's border. It was a modest home but designed to fulfil his passion for style. Now the lights were turned down low and Warren liked the ambience. Like a pleasant prelude to a wonderful dream, the smoke from the scented candles around him floated about, rinsing away the musty smell, replacing it with a subtle lemon scent.   
  
Warren fell asleep to the image of the girl-woman and her smiling brown eyes and the feel of her lips upon his.  
  
Briefly. *Too* briefly.  
  
  
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Thanks, guys! I love you all! Now, the next chapter will be *very* short, but with good reasons... I think. Enjoy! 


	4. Rage

Author's Note: This is a VERY short chapter... with reasons... don't worry. I'm posting the next chapter along, too. Read on and thanks again...!  
  
  
  
  
Something woke him up. Warren felt it was his biological clock, ticking away, waking him up. There it was again.   
  
Warren walked up to the door with a poker in his hand. He didn't bother with the transducer. His sight would have chased the damned robber away. He pulled open the door. Nobody. Only newspapers lie there, lifeless. Westchester Daily was printed across it in bold letters.   
  
He vaguely remembered last night calling his housekeeper to send dailies here for the next two days. He picked it up and slammed the door close.  
  
Warren showered; always the longest time in the morning. His wings needed extra attention and he had one of those custom-made shampoos for it. It was always tricky, but after all the years he learnt how to properly shampoo it.  
  
That done, he walked out of the bathroom with a towel and his wings dripping wet behind him, unfolded and moving slowly. He had popped some brown hash inside the microwave and it was done, and so was his coffee, so all he had to do was to take it all and sit out in the sun.  
  
With his wings open he sat in the green lawn that was wet from yesterday's rain. He reached for the newspapers and began reading it.  
  
His open wings suddenly folded shut with a snapping sound. He stood up, still staring at a particular page, then threw it away. He stood there, as still as a statue while his wings stayed shut. Warren suddenly gave out a scream, an anguished, enraged savage scream that shattered the tranquillity of the lake. A flock of sleepy birds in a tree at the far side of the lake took a startled flight into the sky.  
  
He grunted and kicked at the ground, at the coffee pot, at the plates so that everything flew up and fell and broke to pieces. Some stray pieces caught at his feet and face but he was beyond recognising pain. He was beyond furious. He was mad.  
  
Finally he simply knelt down amongst the broken plates and coffee pot and cups and cried in choked sobs, like a child would.  
  
In the afternoon when his housekeeper came by she was puzzled to see the state of the house. It was like a furious hurricane had just swept across the home.  
  
  
  
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Can you guess what happened? 


	5. Design

*Two weeks later*  
  
  
The new reporter in Westchester Daily, Marilyn Haäs, was excited. Her latest scoop was the trial of the girl who killed herself after she was raped by five teens in New Jersey train station. A big assignment for someone who thought she would never do anything right. But so far the daily seemed to be in big demand from the readers.  
  
"Haäs!"  
  
"Yes?" She looked up from her notes.   
  
"That man who called you yesterday." Johnson was standing in front of her desk. He was a thin man but rather nicely built with a shocking strawberry blond hair. "He's downstairs." He shot her an inquiring look. "Is he - you know?"  
  
"No, I don't know. Tell him I'm busy right now," she said, returning to her notes. She heard Johnson tried to protest, then someone pushed him back. She looked up again. "Who are you?" she asked without much interest.   
  
"I'll be frank with you," he said. Then he lowered his head to her ear. "I need to know where the five men who raped the girl live."  
  
Marilyn took off her reading glasses. This man didn't look like any reporter she knew. There was eagerness in his eyes that seemed to swell to frightening proportions. "They're juvenile, sir. I can't give names or addresses."  
  
To her silent surprise he took out his wallet and threw a chequebook on the table. It slammed loudly, throwing off her notes. "Write down your price," he said with a determination she found increasingly frightening.  
  
"I don't give out information, sir," Marilyn repeated firmly. "Now please get out before I call security."  
  
"Fifty grand?" he asked.  
  
"Sir - "  
  
"Seventy?"  
  
"*Sir!*"  
  
"One million?"  
  
"Johnson!"  
  
Johnson peeked out from behind the tall blond man. She mouthed at him *call security*. He nodded and disappeared.  
  
"Two million?" He blocked her view of Johnson.  
  
"Get out sir." Her voice had a warning in it, but the man didn't seem to listen.  
  
"How about van Gogh's original Sunflowers?"  
  
She tried to pick up a paper and read it but he snatched it from her like some bird of prey snatching fish out of water. He was smiling by now, but nothing funny was in it. Instead she saw obsession... and madness.  
  
"There must be a price," he said loudly. "There has to be. There always is!"  
  
Marilyn had a flash of the bulk of the security guard walking into the office.  
  
He leant forward toward her so suddenly that she screamed. "Name your price, dammit!" he shouted. His hands were braced on the table, looking like some cheetah about to pounce on her.  
  
Marilyn couldn't hold her panic any longer. "Security!!!"  
  
  
Warren let himself brought out by the guard, screaming all the way to the pavement "Name your price! I'll give it to you! Just tell me where those men live!"   
  
"Nuts," one of the guards spat at him as they threw him onto the street. "If I see you around here again, ever, I'll break your neck."  
  
Warren stared at the men with a defiant look. "Name your price," he said weakly.  
  
The guards shook their heads and returned inside. Warren was left standing there. The passing people avoided him as he smiled to himself and thrust his hands inside his pockets and walked away.  
  
Marilyn watched this from the safety of her window upstairs. When she was sure the man had gone from the area she exhaled a relieved sigh and returned to her table.  
  
Only then she realised the notebook where she wrote down everything had disappeared.  
  
  
Warren entered his car that was parked four junctions away from the Westchester Daily office. He fished out the notebook he purloined just now. Going through the pages with the speed of a feverish, eager beaver he scanned each page until he stopped at the middle.  
  
He nodded. "I like neat, tedious people," Warren said to himself.  
  
The addresses were clearly written down there. Ms. Marilyn Haäs even wrote them in alphabetical order.  
  
Then Warren started the car and sped off to his lakeside retreat.  
  
  
  
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What do you think? Please R&R! 


	6. Glory

"Mom, I want to see the New York Philharmonic today! Did you book a ticket for me?"  
  
Gary heard his mother from downstairs said something. "What, mom? I can't hear you!"  
  
"I said," his mother repeated, now standing outside of his room, "I did. Go there and give them your IC number."  
  
"Thanks!"  
  
His mother stared warily at him. "Don't be doing stupid things."  
  
"You know I won't," he said, changing his clothes. Gary was big, like his father, but what happened two weeks ago - two weeks and three days, she added - was still in her mind. "I'll stay over at Midtons' tonight, mom."  
  
She quickly said no. "I don't want you to go with that Midton boy anymore, Gary!"  
  
"Mom!"  
  
"No!"   
  
"Aw, mom, you're not cool."  
  
"Cool!" She was very angry. "Cool? Is it cool going out late at night, hanging out at God knows where? Smoking weed? That Midton boy is nothing but trouble! Look what happened to you!"  
  
"Mom, that was a mistake," Gary weakly said.  
  
"A mistake!" She covered her lips briefly with her palm, trying to think. Her face was a turbulent battlefield of emotions. "Baking a cake without the baking powder is considered a mistake, Gary. Turning at the wrong junction is a mistake. Taking a LIFE is NOT A MISTAKE!"  
  
She practically screamed at him. "Mom," Gary said with an ignorant tone, "we never made her jump in front of a train."  
  
Her reflexes were much, much faster than her thoughts, and a few seconds later Gary was gingerly touching his cheek that had begun to redden slightly. She didn't say sorry because she had wanted to do this since the trial had ended but didn't have the heart to do it. Now she did, she didn't know what to feel.  
  
Gary stared at her for a few more seconds, then left without a word. She was reduced to tears when her husband returned from work two hours later.  
  
  
The programme for today was rather exciting. Saint-Saëns's Symphony No. 3 'Organ' (Gary always gleefully snickered at the thought of the double meaning) and right now the orchestra was playing the beginning of the final movement. The loud strains of the organ filled the orchestra hall.  
  
He stared around him. It seemed that other seats were full, but around him the seats were empty. He wondered about that briefly before the orchestra drowned the doubts.  
  
When the orchestra suddenly joined the organ in forte fortissimo Gary sensed someone behind him. Probably the person had been to the toilet. Again that unison in gloriously loud strains before everything became hushed. Then there was a rising, suspenseful climax greeted by brilliant horns and trumpets and strings, punctuated by the timpani.  
  
The organ again entered and another hush followed, before a lonely flute started the whole machinery going smoothly that later faded into the background, and soon the same suspenseful rising of strings and woodwinds and brass returned, like a rising massive creature.   
  
"Exciting isn't it?" said a hushed voice behind him. Gary quickly shushed the man.  
  
"Yes, it is. Sometimes it is more exciting than, say, raping a helpless girl of nineteen and getting away with it."  
  
Gary froze in his seat. Before he could say anything a thick cord was slipped around his neck and it was tightened quickly. The music drumming in his ears and the cord around his neck made everything feel like dreamlike. But the choking sensation was real, and he tried to struggle. It was useless.  
  
And the glorious strains of the orchestra cum the organ drowned his choking sounds.  
  
"How's this for a glorious end, Gary?" the voice whispered in his ears. The hands tightened the cord even more around his neck, and Gary could feel his eyes bulge out.  
  
Gary could only watch the precise conductor and the members of the orchestra finished the symphony with a long note from the organ. When everyone rose for a standing ovation, Gary was long dead.  
  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Warren!" It was Logan.   
  
"Hey, thought you'd never called!"  
  
"I have to. Where the hell are you?"  
  
"Oh, man, I have to relax a bit." He stared around him. "I got to get away. I have too much in my head. Need to wash it out of my system."  
  
"Let me guess. You're in Bahamas with three women around you."  
  
Warren laughed. It rang out hollow and emotionless. "I don't do that all the time, Logan. But maybe I would. Hey, I have to go. Bye."  
  
He didn't even give Logan a chance to say his goodbye to him.   
  
Warren stared at the table. It was replete with papers. Bits of it stuck here and there until it looked like a messy papier-le-mache of a table. He nodded to himself.  
  
He reached for a bottle of champagne on ice and popped it open. Poured a glass for two. One glass he put it beside a frame, the other he held in his fingers.  
  
"To you, brown-eyed, girl," he said. He drank it all.  
  
  
__________________ 


	7. Crowded

*****  
Helpless Angel  
  
Chapter 7  
  
Crowded  
  
*****  
  
  
  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
There was a frightened hush at the other end of the line. "Gary. Someone strangled him."  
  
"When did this happen?"  
  
"Last night. In P. McCowall's Philharmonic Hall."  
  
"How could someone strangle him - "   
  
"I don't know!" A pause. "Do you think this has to do with the girl we - you know?"  
  
"No, I don't know! And don't even say that four-letter word here!" There was a rustle and he was back on. "Meet me in about fifteen minutes in the café just down the court."  
  
"Now?"  
  
"Now!"  
  
  
Mark went out of the telephone booth. The café was thankfully only a few blocks away from where he was. He walked warily and nervously. Whenever someone bumped into him he quickly moved away. Finally he found himself walking at the far side of the pavement.   
  
He was being continuously pushed and bumping against people. But he really didn't mind that at all by now. No one can do any harm while surrounded by people. Everyone here would become a witness were that person who did Gary attempted to kill him here. That was a comforting thought.  
  
Mark could see the café now. There was Gideon standing, waiting, restless. Everything would be fine if he talked to Gideon. He always makes sure everything will turn out fine. Hell, he got them out of a possible jail sentence.  
  
Though he probably would never forget the way the girl felt beneath him...  
  
She would have made a good woman for them if she didn't do herself in. She was pretty. Her body was like heaven in his hands, and he had believed that she liked him and his well-endowed member. Why would she scream if she didn't like it? Didn't all women scream when they liked it?  
  
Anyway, Gideon now was beckoning at him to walk faster. He speeded up a little, but found his legs became tired all of a sudden. Wait up, he mouthed at Gideon.  
  
  
Mark was panting. Gideon saw him bent over and then slowly straightened himself again. "Come on!" Gideon urged him.  
  
"All right," Mark said weakly. Did this guy run all the way to here? He looked rather pale, but he wasn't sweating. Maybe he was freaked out on the fact Gary died.  
  
"Tell me about it," he said when Mark was in front of him. Mark nodded. He looked upward for a moment. His eyes turned up and became whites. Mark let out a groan and slumped forward.  
  
"Hey, man, it's no time to joke around," Gideon said. He had gathered his friend to standing again, but Mark seemed to be made out of jelly. His legs wobbled and he simply couldn't seem to stand anymore. Gideon held Mark's back to steady him. There his hand met something sticky and wet. "Oh shit..."  
  
It was blood. Somewhere a woman started to scream.  
  
  
"Easiest thing in the world. You stuck a knife in someone's back while walking in a crowd. That fellow would feel like someone had bumped against him, that's all. About four or five steps later he would suddenly fall over and died."  
  
Warren listened to the news, eyes closed leisurely, a smile played lightly on his lips. A coroner was being interviewed about the latest murder that happened in front of a café. It was rush hour; everyone wanted to go home, nobody noticed or saw anything.  
  
"Is there a connection between the murder and the death in the philharmonic hall?" asked the loud reporter, shoving her small recorder to his nose that the coroner had to push it away. Warren's smile widened at that gesture.  
  
"We have no comment at this time - "  
  
The TV clicked off. Warren closed his eyes. In the darkness everything looked the same.  
  
Yes. Everything, everyone looked the same. Especially sinners.  
  
"No one will get away, brown-eyed girl," he said, filling his glass with the same wine he had opened yesterday. It tasted flat.   
  
But his mind said it had gotten sweeter.  
  
  
___________ 


	8. Gluttony

****** 

Helpless Angel 

Chapter: 8 

Gluttony  
  
******

  


Gideon wanted to run away.

Nathan and Rudy had been calling him endlessly two days ago. "What's going on?" "Who is this guy?" "Aren't we supposed to be protected?" "Who's he going to kill next?" "I don't wanna die, Gid! I don't wanna!!"

_Shit_, he cursed. Let them handle it themselves.

There was a knock at the door. "Let me in."

"Go away."

The door burst open and a man who looked like Gideon's clone entered. The two men stood face to face and both stared at each other for a while.

"I am going to add up security."

"Please, father." Gideon stared at him, defiant, arrogant.

"Don't you _father_ me!" His voice boomed in the room that Gideon felt the whole house fell silent. "Not after what you've done to disgrace our family and especially yourself."

"You could have disowned me," Gideon replied lazily. "Wouldn't that be better?"

His father fell silent. The anger in his eyes would have been too much for someone else but Gideon had learnt to live under those eyes from the moment he knew his father. "I don't want securities, father. I don't want people snooping around me. I hate people snooping around me."

"Then you leave me with no choice." With that he walked out and three able-bodied men entered. They locked the door behind them and stayed there.

Gideon was way beyond mad. "_Fuck_ you!" he shouted. Grabbing a delicate vase of bonsai he threw it at the door; the three men ducked away. The plant bounced out of the vase and moved a little before lying still, like breathing its last air

.  
  


Rudy and Nathan stared at each other worriedly. They had been doing that since two days ago.

"I can't go on eating this shit forever," Nathan said. He pushed away the half-empty can of sardines and the loaf of bread they had been living off. "I have to have real food."

"And risk yourself getting shot, strangled or stabbed at?" Rudy shifted on his cushion. "No way."

"Are you sure this spot is safe?"

"I don't think anyone's been here since they put up a notice up front." The building was condemned a few months ago, but demolition had not been smooth. So this building was left standing here. "Besides, that crazy murderer wouldn't think of looking us here."

Nathan glanced at him nervously. "Would he?"

Rudy stared at him reproachfully. "Of course he won't!" A small nervous feeling grew in him even as he sounded confident. "He won't know us here."

They fell silent for a while. Then Nathan sighed. "I shouldn't have agreed on that idea, man. That had been downright stupid and... well, stupid." He didn't want to say uncivilised because that would mean he himself was included. The son of a respected manager wouldn't want to call himself uncivilised.

Rudy snorted scornfully. "You seemed to enjoy her the most."

Nathan smiled in spite of himself. "She was a great piece, wasn't she? She had this great body, man. I wonder how did she manage to stay virgin."

Rudy nodded. "That was rather nice." As if this talk aroused his hunger for more than this ware they had Rudy said, "Come on. I don't think the murderer is on the street all the time. We could grab some burgers at the nearby fast food joint."

Nathan immediately brightened to the idea.

  
  


"Hey, I get lots of sugar," Nathan said.

They finally decided to eat there. Although Nathan cautioned him that the murderer had done Mark in the open, Rudy countered him with the fact that the restaurant had cameras at every corner. "If anything suspicious happens, they will alert the police and that man would be caught pronto."

"Give me some," Rudy said, grabbing two packets of it. Soon he was stirring his cup of tea. Nathan followed suit and ate his beef burger first. He sighed when the first mouthful entered his gullet. "Oh yeah," he said. "This is real food."

Rudy drank his tea first. They had no water back in that building, so he had bought a cup of tea and a coke. He sipped slowly at it, then faster when the tea had gotten colder.

"I think we should go home right now, Rudy." He was starting on the second burger. "I think no one is after us. Don't you think so?"

"You know what I think?" Rudy asked. "I think you should stop thinking."

While Nathan sulked and ate his burger Rudy noticed the sugar sachet had something sticking out of it. Intrigued, he took it out. Probably some sort of a gimmick, he thought. Rudy unfolded it and started reading it as he drank his tea.

_Do you like your coffee/tea?_

Another gimmick, Rudy thought, staring at the printed matter.

_Does it taste better than the usual sugar? That's because this is unusual! We have added a few interesting ingredients! Do you feel your throat burning now?_

Rudy scowled at it. When he was about to toss it away he felt _a burning in his throat_. He read on, curious.

_You do? Good. Because the poison is already in your system -_

_What the hell?_ Rudy's eyes widened..

_ -and you cannot get any medical attention because the antidote can be found only in South Borneo. How does that feel, sir? Do you enjoy your coffee/tea? Does this beat raping a helpless nineteen year-old girl?_

Rudy was gurgling out something nasty in his throat. Nathan looked up from his burger and was about to ask him what's the noise all about. He couldn't.

Rudy was regurgitating blood out of his mouth. He tried to cover it up with his hands but his blood simply gushed out uncontrollably. Some fell on Rudy's untouched burgers and fries. They looked alarmingly like chilli sauce. Nathan was speechless with horror. The burger fell out of his hands.

Rudy felt his whole body was burning. _Oh my God what the hell is this? How did he do this? How did he manage to poison me?_ Blood continued to gush out like from a broken dam. Rudy's shirtfront and lower face was soaked in red by now and someone probably noticed it and started screaming. His head suddenly seemed heavy and it fell upon the table, hard. The letter he had just read now covered his eyes briefly.

_Do you enjoy your last meal?_

  
  


Nathan meanwhile was frozen with horror. Then he stood up and gave way to the workers who checked Rudy's pulse and said to someone to call the police and the ambulance. Nathan managed a croak, then his voice, when it came out, was screaming.

"It's the murderer! It's him! He wants all of us to die!" Rudy was staring at him with glassy eyes that held no more life. Blood continued to flow out of his mouth, his nose, his ears... everywhere on his body where there was a hole. "_He wants all of us to die!!!_"

"Young man, stay calm," said someone behind him and held his shoulders. He wildly pulled himself away from the person and stared at the people who had gathered around Rudy.

"It's you!" he said, pointing at a woman who was looking back at him in surprise. "Or you! Or you! It could be all of you! Help!! Police!!"

With that he ran out of the restaurant screaming. When he was on the pavement he looked to his left and right wildly before someone grabbed him by the jaw, pushed him back toward the door and pressed his head against the glass door. In the darkness Nathan saw a gleam of metal.

"No..." he whispered. "_No_... please God, no..."

For a moment the gleaming metal disappeared. Then: "Do you like the way you plead?"

The voice was cold, but Nathan nodded. He'd do anything to escape this.

"Do you think I like the way you pleaded?"

He nodded. Vigorously.

"Wrong answer," the voice said. Nathan's eyes widened when he felt something was shoved into his mouth. It tasted metallic.

"Because you should have known better than to rape a nineteen-year-old girl."

The mirror door shattered and the people inside the restaurant screamed. The last thing they saw was a figure walking away from the teenager who was descending onto the ground with a trail of blood and white matter down the shattered door.

  
  


That night Warren took a three-hour bubble bath and drank the same flat champagne with the frame facing him.

"This is the best champagne ever!" he said to himself.  
  
  



	9. Finalè

Next morning Warren decided to pay a visit to his housekeeper.   
  
She was surprised when he said that he no longer needed her service. Oh, she was very good at what she does, Warren assured her, but he was going to leave this place soon, and he was planning on selling the property. She was sad, but immediately brightened to pay her double the salary she had received if she were to quit her job by tomorrow.   
  
She agreed, and was gone by evening.  
  
That night Warren collected the notes stuck upon the table and any other stray notes. He practically combed through the house looking for any sort of matter that could be used as evidence. When he was satisfied he threw all of them into the fire and watched them burn.  
  
Everything was in his head. He needed nothing else. But there was another loose end to take care of. Warren fell asleep to the promise he'd take care of that particular matter.  
  
  
The worker insisted that he had taken a break when the incident happened. "I was smoking out in the back. I didn't go back to work until ten minutes later. I didn't even know that there was an incident until someone told me."  
  
The police had checked. This man was where he claimed he had been. But there was definitely someone on the counter taking orders from the two unfortunate teenagers. The manager was angry when he was asked to identify the man. "That man wasn't one of my employees! I never tolerate my employees wear shirt during working! They must wear the full uniform!"  
  
Cameras in the counter only showed the back of the man. The camera in the front door didn't much, either. Images captured from the camera were blurry at its best and dark as a witch's ass at its worst, to quote the inspector in charge of the case.  
  
Marilyn went back to the office, feeling definitely worn out. There had been four murders in a matter of days. Though nobody would notice at first, she knew what linked these murders. The Case of Heather Warwick.   
  
She knew all the details of the case. At first it had seemed a suicide case, but when the autopsy report came out and proven that the girl had been a rape victim, the case became more complicated. A few train station workers came forward and gave descriptions of a girl being dragged, not to her accord, toward an unused storeroom, by five teenagers. Identification was prompt, and before she could say Pulitzer Prize the case was closed with the verdict that these young men were to be sent to rehabilitation centres instead of jail sentence.  
  
Marilyn recalled the way her own heart dropped when the verdict was read out. But she was a reporter, and her presence there meant nothing than as a reporter. Now that she recalled that day, she remembered no one came forward crying or shouting angrily at the judge, jury or the accused. Nobody was angry. (Maybe she was, but she was a professional reporter now, and had to act accordingly.)  
  
The swallow had fallen, and no one looked.  
  
"Good evening, Ms Haäs."  
  
She quickly turned. A man stood three feet away from her. She had a shimmer of recognition when his hair hit the streetlamp. That blonde shade! He was -  
  
"I believe this is yours," he said, taking out a notebook she knew all too well. Quickly she grabbed it from him and hid it in between the folds of her coat.  
  
"You're behind these murders, aren't you?" she said after a tense silence. "You did these horrible murders."  
  
He walked a bit to the front and she backed away from him. But now his features were clear to her and hers was hidden in the shadows. "We've only met," he said, smiling without a trace of anger. "How rude of you."  
  
"Why else would you steal my notebook, you damned murderer!" she hissed. "Are you satisfied now that four young men are dead? Not to mention horribly?"  
  
"Ah, Ms Haäs, don't try to trick yourself." He looked at her like she was his daughter and had just said a taboo word. "You know very well these men deserve it. I saw your face when they read out the sentence. I knew you were disappointed."  
  
"It's in their hands; I can do nothing," she said. He had been watching her, Marilyn thought with a growing fear.  
  
He laughed. A cold laughter that was hollow and void of feelings. "I don't want to waste time, Ms Haäs. I have things to do." He turned and waved goodbye at her. "Thanks for the notebook."  
  
When she finally decided to follow him into an alley he had entered she found he wasn't there.  
  
  
Gideon thought he could somehow bribe those men, but they were made of steel and heartless. He couldn't even talk to them. It was so uncomfortable; the men checked the food before he could eat them, stared at him even when he was using the bathroom, and even worse, when he showered.  
  
It was high morning, and the sun was shining outside. He thought of the sports he could have done instead of sitting and staring at three expressionless faces. If they were female faces that could have been some sort of consolation. But they were men.  
  
Gideon went back to sleep.  
  
Suddenly the window above his bed shattered. The men became immediately alert. Then there was a hissing sound. They all searched for it and found a smoke bomb at the far corner of the room.  
  
"Who did this?" said the tall man.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Throw it out. Then make a check around the perimeter."  
  
The window suddenly darkened. They all looked toward it and saw something was hovering there. They hadn't much time to learn what it was.  
  
"Ouch!"  
  
"What the hell -!"  
  
"It's tranquil-"  
  
The three men fell down, unconscious. Gideon didn't want to wait any longer to find out. He leapt from the bed, his heart pumping wildly under his shirt as he opened the door.  
  
But it wouldn't.   
  
Panic slowly clouded his mind. But he could still think. Yes, the guards! They had it. They kept the keys! Quickly he dove toward the unconscious bodies and searched them.  
  
"Looking for these?"  
  
The voice and the sound of delicate metal clinks made him look toward the window. Standing there - no, wait, he wasn't standing, Gideon thought with increasing alarm in his mind. He was flying!  
  
"Sorry," he said, casually tossing it out of the broken window. Gideon screamed and tried to reach him, but Warren merely flew higher upward.  
  
"Hello, Gideon." Warren savoured the astonished look on his face and nodded. "Yes, I am the one who killed your friends. Usually I don't talk like this to them but for you, I make an exception." He opened the slender gun chamber and loaded two yellow-tailed darts. Gideon glanced briefly at the unconscious bodies; they had green-tailed ones.  
  
"Oh yes," Warren went on, noticing his glance. "This has been specially prepared for you." He swooped close to Gideon and knocked him down so that he was lying on his back. Before Gideon could rise he placed a firm shod feet on his face and his chest. Sounds of protests came from his almost crushed lips.  
  
"You see, Gideon," Warren went on, twirling with the small slender dart gun in his hands. "One day I met this girl. She was beautiful in her own way, charming, and she could have made a very good pair for me."  
  
"What do you want?" Gideon managed from between his mashed lips. That made Warren push his feet harder against it and Gideon moaned in pain.  
  
"She left me and I thought she would be safe. Then you and your friends came along and raped her." He leant closer to Gideon's squashed face. "Did you know something?"  
  
"That she was a virgin?"  
  
Warren bit his lips. Gripping the tip of the gun tight he twirled it upward and then after gathering enough momentum and speed to probably knock down a horse his hand moved down the butt in an arc toward Gideon's face. A dull crack was heard. Gideon groaned loudly and started to struggle. Warren kept a foot on his chest and replaced his other foot on his mouth.  
  
"That's for talking back," Warren said, satisfied. Blood was flowing from Gideon's forehead. "She had nobody, Gideon. Nobody. Her parents fought until her mother nearly died; now still in coma. Her father is in jail and hated her. She never knew the truth until she saw his father took this broken bottle and stabbed her mother at the heart. She never knew her parents hated each other so much."  
  
"You're making me cry," Gideon said through his squashed lips. Warren took off his foot from both Gideon's chest and lips, but before he could move, probably even swifter, Warren was in between his legs and kicked his balls as hard as he could. Twice. Gideon could only shout as loud as his lungs could hold. The pain was indescribable.  
  
"Then you," Warren pointed a foot at Gideon who was rolling and moaning on the floor in pain "you came there and just raped her. Did you ever think that she was everything she had left in this world? Her pride? Her life?" Warren kicked him anywhere his feet pleased as Gideon tried to crawl away from him. "Did you?!!"  
  
The last question was shouted at Gideon's ear; he saw stars and his ears rang endlessly. When everything had cleared he found Warren was standing again over him.  
  
"Well, now, boy, it's time." The bedroom door was being forced from outside; it seemed that the whole household was outside trying to get in. "Do you want to know what this is?" When Gideon didn't answer Warren went on. "I don't know it myself." He chuckled. "But what I do know is the instant this thing entered your bloodstream you'll become a vegetable."  
  
Gideon's eyes widened at this.  
  
"Oh yes," Warren said, taking off the safety. "I heard your father currently contracted a cancer of the prostate and he could probably never have children again. He should have thought before jumping into the bed last time."  
  
*No!* he thought angrily. *I am the sole heir to Midton Company!* Gideon rushed up. "You dirty mutant!"  
  
Warren kicked him back down firmly. "Shut up." Checking the gun twice he pointed it at him. "Oh, before I say goodbye, let me tell you; you'll be a vegetable and your whole body will become like a three-year-old. But your mind will stay the same." He pointed at Gideon for accuracy, then pulled the trigger. Twice.  
  
Two yellow-tailed darts found its mark on Gideon's chest and arm respectively. Gideon felt his strength and his consciousness drain away at a frightening speed. No, he thought. No... no!  
  
When they managed to break into later Gideon could only stare at his father with a faraway look in his eyes while his hands clumsily trying to hug his father's neck. "Papa!" was the only thing he knew. 


	10. Release

******

Chapter 10

Release

******

  
The air smelt thick with kerosene. Warren stared at the small house that had become his retreat from reality. Now it would turn to ashes.

He had learnt her real name when they first announced her name along with the pictures produced by the coroner. Heather Warwick. He shook his head.

The champagne bottle was now almost empty. He threw it inside, along with the rest of the stuff he had used for committing the crimes. He knew, after this he wouldn't be the same. He had killed people. Young men, in fact. Young men, who could have had great future waiting for them.

He wouldn't try to reason with himself right now. He felt everything in him had become some sort of twisted and his logic was irrevocably tainted. What he had done, he had done it. And that should be the way it remained.

_Thank you, thank you…_

Her voice echoed in his mind. Warren shut his eyes and blindly threw a lit match toward the open door.

_I would have…_

He stood back as the fire burnt brighter, tongues of flame reaching the roof and engulfing it with prodigious speed. He walked on, the flaming house behind him, a lonely, dark road ahead.

_I would have…_

Warren entered his Honda, closed the door with a slam and sped off. His sight was blurry by now.

_I would have…_

When Warren finally came to the main road he had to stop. The tears in his eyes were distracting -

_Distracting? Damn you! Distracting is when you go to a strip club and look at the women! This is not distracting! This is REAL, man. REAL TEARS. Men cry for the ones they love, man. Do you love her?_

"No…" he weakly protested.

_Do you love her?!_

Warren shook his head defiantly. He hit his head on the wheel continuously, trying to stop the voice that was his own.

_Do you love her, Warren Worthington III?!!!_

"GODDAMMIT I LOVE HER!" he shouted, tears jerking away from his eyes as he jerked up his head. "God, help me… I loved her…" He covered his eyes with his arms, almost like hugging his own head. "I loved her… I loved her…"

The small litany was drowned in his tears.

  
  


The stationmaster saw a tall blond man in black coat and black shades walked toward platform number seven. He had this small bouquet in his hands. Curious, the stationmaster stood there watching. It was almost two in the morning and no one was here except for those who had arrived on the late train.

The tall blond man knelt down. The stationmaster's mind moved; something he had never told anyone before. Something about the body of the girl who jumped in front of the train to kill herself.

  
  


"I can't help but notice," someone said behind him. Warren turned. Through his black shades he saw an elderly fat man in uniform of the station. On the left breast was emblazoned STATIONMASTER. Under it was Hope. How appropriate.

"What are the roses for?" the man asked. Warren held out them to him for a while then hid them again. "For someone," he replied.

"You mean the girl who died here?"

Warren closed his eyes.

"That was a sad story, young man," the man began. "I saw with my own eyes how empty she looked as she stared across the platform and jumped when the train was only coming in. They had to use a crane to lift up the locomotive head because some of her… er, body, was squished all the way under."

Warren opened his eyes. He stared at the railway track. There was no blood there, now.

"The only thing that was intact was her lower body and her arms. I was among the one who tried to take out the body." He paused, as if struggling to take something out of his tight uniform pocket. "In one hand I found this."

Warren turned around, this time curiously. "She had this in her hand. It was so tight I had to pry it open with my small screwdriver. I thought it was a small rock or something. I didn't know why I never told the authorities about it. It could have helped them some, but then again, it might not be important."

Warren stared at what the fat elderly man had given him. It was a note, crumpled so badly you could hardly see the writings on it. Very few blood was on it, though, and the writings were still visible, if not barely.

_I would have wanted you_

Warren felt his eyes sting with unshed tears. He wanted to take off his shades, but the fat man was beside him.

"I'll leave you alone," the man said, as if reading his mind.

When he was far enough Warren unfolded the note and stared at it. Anger had been too long riding upon him, now it was gone and sorrow replaced it. He felt overcome. He had to sit down. Then he broke down and cried like a fool.

Warren sat there staring at the note and the tracks for a few hours. Before he left he placed the three roses on the railway track, put on his shades and went home.

This time to Xavier's mansion. He needed distraction from this feeling… from a small voice that kept on saying thank you and the lips that touched his in a chaste kiss.

From his true love.

  
  
  


The End 


End file.
